


Daddy Lessons

by November Snowflake (novembersnow)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Jack Zimmermann's daddy issues, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 16:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8851225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novembersnow/pseuds/November%20Snowflake
Summary: Five times Bad Bob knew the score, and one time Jack slipped past his defenses.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emalilly23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emalilly23/gifts).



> For emalilly23, who asked for fluffy, domestic Jack and Bitty through the years. It's maybe a little more slice-of-life than pure fluffy domestic, but it does hit some major milestones for Jack and Bitty, so I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Some dialogue excerpted directly from the comic; all credit to the amazing Ngozi. Grateful thanks to my beta, [supergrover24](http://archiveofourown.org/users/supergrover24/pseuds/supergrover24).

**1\. August 2013**

The weight of a long and bruising day hung heavy on his shoulders as his father's voice filled his ear.

"How's the team looking this year?" 

Jack tucked the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he restlessly reorganized the books he'd only just recently unpacked. He'd been back on campus for only a few days, and he could already feel the tension starting to pull tight across his neck and back. He needed to move. 

"Good," he said. He paused, reconsidered. Repeated, with somewhat less conviction, "Good." 

His dad made a thoughtful sound. "Problems?" 

"No," he said, but didn't sound convincing, even to himself. "I hope not," he amended. 

He could hear his father moving around on the other side of the call, probably settling down in his squashy old armchair that Jack's mother hated, and that Jack's dad knew he should get rid of because it didn't offer enough support for his back ("Getting old isn't pretty, Jack," he'd grumbled more than once). "What's the concern?" he asked. 

Jack sighed and sank down into his desk chair, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "I hope it's nothing. Just—this freshman." 

When Jack hesitated, his father made an inquisitive sound. 

"He's—" Jack leaned back in the chair, tilting his head back, his eyes closing as he took a deep breath. "He's—really small. And a former figure skater. He brought _pie_ to our first practice." 

He could hear laughter on the other end of the line. "Pie, as in—"

"As in pie. Pecan pie. Which he'd baked himself." 

"Was it any good?" 

"Papa!" 

His dad laughed again. "Sounds like a thoughtful gesture, if an unusual one." 

Jack _humph_ ed. 

"I can think of many a locker room experience that might have been enhanced by pie…"

"Papa, be serious." 

Another low laugh. "Okay, so the kid bakes. What's the problem?" 

Jack groaned. "It's not the baking that's the problem. Or, it's—there's not a _problem_. It's just—" He made a frustrated noise. 

His dad chuckled. "So, he bakes. He's small. You said he's a figure skater?" 

"Was." Jack sat upright again, knee bouncing. "He switched to hockey in high school." 

"Good skater, though?" 

Jack exhaled. "Yeah," he admitted. "Fast as hell." 

"I'm sure your coaches had reasons for recruiting him." 

"Yeah, I know. It's just—" He stood again, rolling his shoulders as he paced. The memory of the kid's face filled his head: bright, open, friendly, almost puppyish in its eagerness. When he'd introduced himself, his drawl had been thick as syrup, his voice a honeyed tenor suited to his size and sunshine coloring. 

Jack hadn't taken any of the pie, but the sounds Shitty, Ransom, and Holster had made when they'd dived into it had been borderline obscene. Bittle had actually looked shocked. It might have been funny if Jack hadn't been so horrified that the kid had brought _pie_ to _hockey practice_.

Jack took a breath and said, "He just seems—" _Innocent._ "—naïve." 

"He's, what, eighteen? Naïveté comes with the territory at that age." His father's voice turned serious in his ear. "And you're going to be his captain, Jack. That's a position of influence. If you're worried about him, you're in a position to help." 

Jack sighed. "I know." 

His dad's voice was warm. "You're a great teacher, Jack. I remember how amazing you were with those peewee kids." 

Jack's shoulders tensed. He'd loved his peewee coaching experience, yes, and still kept in touch with the kids he'd coached. But he wouldn't have been there if not for…

His father continued. "If this kid is naïve, if he's inexperienced—you can help him. I believe in you, Jack. He will, too." 

Jack swallowed. "Thanks, Papa." 

"And, who knows? Maybe he'll end up a friend." 

Jack snorted. "That seems doubtful." 

"I remember you being awfully dubious about Shitty at first, and that worked out well enough." 

Jack laughed. "That's because Shitty is—Shitty." 

There was a double-thump on the other side of the door to the shared bathroom. "I heard my name, you beautiful Canadian fucker!" Shitty swung the door open and lounged against the doorframe, shirtless, pantsless, thankfully not (yet) underwear-less. "And from the stream of unintelligible French that preceded it, I can only surmise you're talking to my favorite French-Canadian father figure." 

"Shitty says hi, Dad," Jack said into the phone, switching to English, a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. "I should let you go." 

Shitty crossed the room and hugged Jack from behind, arms wound around his waist. "LOVE YA, BOB!" he shouted. 

Bob laughed. "Love you boys, too," he said. "Good luck with the team, Jack. Keep me posted." 

" _Ouais, Papa. Merci_. Bye." 

He hung up the phone, and Shitty propped his chin on Jack's shoulder. "How is the Baddest of Bobs?" 

"Good," Jack said. "Just asking about how the team's shaping up." 

Shitty groaned into Jack's shoulder. "If that fucking pie was any indication, it is going to be a goddamn _great_ fucking year." 

Jack huffed out a laugh and patted one of Shitty's hands where it rested on his abdomen. "I hope you're right," he said with a sigh. 

* * *

The figure-skating freshman was afraid of _checking_.

Jack slammed his helmet into his stall and sucked in a deep breath, unable even to look at Bittle, who sat, shoulders hunched, just a short distance away, still trembling as he stripped slowly out of his gear. 

He tried to remember his father's words. Tried to remember that he could be better than this. That it was his duty to help a member of his team. 

But it was so hard to remember, so hard to cling to reasoned, rational maturity, when all he could see was his dreams collapsing before him like some fainting goat of a figure skater. 

He yanked off the rest of his gear, set his jaw, and hit the showers. 

_Maybe he'll end up a friend._

Right. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


**2\. November 2013**

His mother loved coming down for Family Weekend. She loved any excuse to visit Samwell, really—she always turned a little giddy when she set foot on campus, and the bells of Founder's had been known to make her misty, much to his dad's amusement. 

But his mom had a conflict with an event for one of her children's charities this year, so she couldn't make it. 

To his surprise, his dad planned to come anyway. To the game, at least. 

Hockey, his dad could always make time for. 

Jack had never thought his dad seemed entirely comfortable with Samwell. He clearly enjoyed his wife's obvious, even effusive, affection for the university, and attempted to tease her about it at every opportunity—not that he succeeded, because Alicia Zimmermann would not be shamed by her love for Samwell, no matter how many times Bob poked fun. It was where she'd become herself, she told him, her chin tilted upward. It was where she'd become the person he'd eventually fallen in love with. 

And, well, Bob was still so stupid in love with his wife that the line of teasing always ended at that argument. 

So, Bob was comfortable with, even warm toward, Alicia's relationship with Samwell University. 

Jack's, though…well. Samwell and Jack always made Bob go a little quiet. 

On the loading dock, he hung up the phone and pressed his hands to his eyes, grateful for the quiet, the isolation, the long shadows as afternoon slipped toward evening. "Shit." 

"Are you okay?" 

He jerked his head up at the sound of the voice. "Bittle," Jack choked out as he met Bittle's eyes. 

Bittle stood in the now-open doorway, a box clasped in his arms, his posture tentative. "Sorry," he said. 

"It's fine," he replied automatically, his heart still beating too fast. He'd been so deep in his own head, he hadn't even heard the whine of the door opening wider. How did conversations with his dad always get to him like this? 

"I was just in the old equipment room," Bittle was saying, "and I heard you outside." 

He could have sworn his heart stopped. "You could hear…?"

"I mean, I didn't _understand_ ," Bittle hastened to add. "But you just seemed kinda stressed, so." He shifted awkwardly. "I just wanted to check." 

Jack stared at him. 

"Um," Bittle said. 

Jack watched, wordless, as Bittle appeared to steel himself, then shouldered the door open fully and made his way down the stairs and over toward Jack. Bittle perched on the edge of the loading dock next to him, knees clasped together, and balanced the box carefully atop them. 

If Jack hadn't been so tense, he might have laughed when he saw the contents. "Ransom and Holster trick you into going on a jockey run again?" 

" _What?_ " Bittle's indignant squawk rose an octave. "No! Uh." He glanced down at the box and grimaced slightly, color pinking his cheeks. "I need…all these." 

"…Whatever helps your game, man," Jack said. 

Bittle's gaze swept up to meet his, and his eyes were warm in the autumn chill. "Pre-game jitters?" he asked. 

"No." Jack closed his eyes against the lie, the imminent arrival of his dad pressing against his throat, the image of his disappointed face hovering on the inside of his eyelids. He exhaled, slowly, and opened his eyes. "Well." He hesitated, then admitted, "Something like that." 

"Oh!" Bittle said, his tone bright. "Well, I always got worked up before competitions, especially if I knew my dad was gonna be there. Every time I saw him during warm-ups, I'd flub my jumps. I can only imagine how it must be for you." 

Jack stared at Bittle in silence. 

"Er." Bittle colored again. "But it happens to everyone!" 

Jack searched his expression. Bittle was his teammate, but they still barely knew each other. Shitty seemed to like the kid, and Jack gave Bittle credit for attending his early-morning checking practices, even if it was with more Southern sass than good grace. He knew Bittle had talent on the ice, and he had begun to realize he had warmth off of it. He certainly knew Bittle had a peculiar obsession with pies—the Haus kitchen had taken on a lingering scent of cinnamon and vanilla, which at least was preferable to the cocktail of rot, spilled beer, and stuck-on Sriracha that had haunted it before. 

He wasn't sure how much Bittle knew about his relationship with his father, or just how much he'd gleaned from the conversation he'd overheard, language barrier or no. But the way Bittle's gaze clung anxiously to his told him enough. 

The kid was trying, at least. He was always trying. 

"Thanks, Bittle," he said at last. 

Bittle brightened. "You kidding?" he replied, relief coloring his voice. "I should be thanking you for the checking clinics." 

"Just promise me you won't crumple into a ball at center ice tonight, and we're even." Bittle wrinkled his nose at him, and Jack stood, smiling at last. "Come on, we're gonna be late for Strategy." 

He held out a fist, and Bittle scrambled to wedge the box of jocks under one arm, tapping his own fist to Jack's almost reverently. "A fist bump! I didn't know you _did_ those." 

"Ha," Jack replied, still smiling. "You gotta work for them." 

Bittle positively beamed at him, his face aglow in the setting sun, and Jack felt the buzz saw of his anxiety retreat, at least for the moment. 

* * *

The game was tightly fought and furious. By the last handful of minutes of the third period, neither team had scored. 

His usual third-period tension was magnified tenfold by the knowledge that his father was seated in the crowd, one face among many in the mass of roaring students and their families. Jack had greeted him before the game, exchanged hugs, exchanged chirps. His dad had rubbed affectionately at his hair, the way he had ever since Jack had been a pudgy pipsqueak of a player with an uncannily accurate shot, a rapidly blossoming love for the game his dad—his _hero_ —had taught him, and little understanding of the burden imposed by the name he bore. 

He'd ducked out from under his dad's hand, and had tried not to notice the way his father's broad, beaming smile had hitched. 

Barely four minutes to go in the third period, and the urgent need to score had him fairly vibrating on the bench. He barked strategy with Coach Hall while Shitty, Bittle, and Wicky's line took the ice, and winced as Shitty took a hard check. 

Then, somehow, miraculously, Bittle had the puck, and Yale was caught wrong-footed. 

One second, Bittle was flying with the puck. The next, it hit the back of the net. 

Jack's jaw fell open. The entire arena seemed to rise to its feet and scream as one. 

And Bittle looked like a deer in the headlights as Shitty leapt on him. 

_…At least he didn't faint_ , Jack thought distantly. 

* * *

"Great game," his dad said, greeting him with a hug after he'd shed his gear. One good thing about having a hockey legend as a father—he knew how rank Jack would be immediately after a game, and he never seemed to care. Maybe after enough years playing, he'd ceased to notice. 

"Yeah," Jack said gruffly. 

"You boys fought every minute," his father said as he drew back, one hand lingering to clasp Jack's shoulder. "It was beautiful to watch." 

"Thanks," he said, fighting the urge to cross his arms over his chest. 

"Would have been just as proud if you hadn't come through with the win," his father said, fingers tightening slightly, "but it's nice to see you earn the victory in front of the Family Weekend crowd, eh?" 

"Yeah," Jack said. "Right." 

Just down the hall, he could hear the high-pitched chatter of a woman's voice, and the molasses-flavored drawl pointed toward one person. Sure enough, when he looked past his father's shoulder, he could see Bittle, shoulders hunched in pleased embarrassment as a woman who could only be his mother flailed at him, camera in hand. 

His father, noticing the direction of his gaze, turned to look, as well. "Ah. Is that the little fellow who scored the goal?" 

"Yeah," Jack said. He could feel tension in his jaw. 

His father glanced at him. "How about we say hello?" 

Jack wanted to laugh bitterly. He wanted to scowl and refuse, like a child. 

He said, "Okay." 

He fell into step next to his father as Bob crossed the handful of feet between them and the Bittles. "Oh, before you go," Mrs. Bittle was saying as they approached, "lemme take one more picture—"

"Would you like one of us to take it for you?" his dad interrupted, and both Bittles turned comically fast to face him. "Though you might want Jack—" His father turned on the old Bad Bob Zimmermann full-wattage smile. "—he's always been a better shot than me." 

Both Bittles' eyes were round and huge. Bittle looked like he might faint. 

Irritated, Jack crossed his arms. "Dad, this is Eric Bittle and his mom." His father stuck out a hand to shake first Mrs. Bittle's—she'd gone pink and appeared to be trembling, and Jack began to wonder if Bittle got his fainting tendencies from her—and then her son's. "Bittle's the one I told you about," Jack added pointedly. "The figure skater." 

An expression of realization dawned on his father's face even as Bittle stammered out a greeting to "Mister Jack's dad." 

It was all Jack could do not to roll his eyes, but his father just chuckled. "Please, just call me Bob." 

Mrs. Bittle clasped a hand to her heart. 

"I gotta say," his father continued, eyeing Bittle approvingly, "I was a bit worried when I first saw you come out on the ice. But I guess big surprises really do come in small packages." He set a hand on Bittle's shoulder. "That was a clutch shot, son." 

Jack fought not to flinch, even as Bittle flushed with pleasure. 

"Wow!" Bittle said, looking dazed. "Um. Thank you, sir. I still can't believe it happened." His gaze flicked to Jack, then back to Jack's father. "And to be honest, I'm always so scared out there—I practically took the shot with my eyes closed." 

His dad laughed. "A good bounce is a good bounce. Though I know Jack here probably wanted to make that game winner himself, huh?" His other hand rose to pat Jack's shoulder, as though in sympathy, before settling there, warm and heavy. 

Bittle's eyes found Jack's again, and Jack looked away, jaw set. The conversation around him receded as he stared blindly past the small knot of people. 

"And you must be very proud of your son, Mrs. Bittle," he heard his father say, as if from a distance. 

" _Suzanne_ ," Mrs. Bittle replied, breathless. "So proud. But Eric is lucky to get to play with Jack." 

"You know, Coach Hall should try them on the same line—"

Jack twitched at that, his attention drawn back fully to the conversation just as Mrs. Bittle replied, "I was just saying the same thing to Eric. Wouldn't they work well together?" 

Bittle was watching him again, pleasure at the compliment appearing to war with nerves at Jack's lack of expression. 

"Dad, I'm going to go shower up," Jack interrupted, cutting off his father's reply. "It's a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Bittle." He didn't acknowledge Bittle and barely heard Mrs. Bittle's warm reply as he turned away, forcing his father's hand to fall from his shoulder. 

He heard his father offering his goodbyes to the Bittles as he turned to follow Jack, his arm falling once more across Jack's shoulders and neck, its weight like a yoke. 

"That wasn't very polite, Jack," he admonished softly. 

"I have to shower," Jack said, pulling away. 

His father's arm fell back to his side. Bob frowned and glanced away. "All right," he said. 

Jack stood, silent, shoulders hunched, looking at his father in the unforgiving fluorescent light and uneven shadows of the corridor just outside the locker room. 

"You played well today, Jack," his father said. 

"Not well enough," Jack replied without thinking. 

His father's jaw twitched, and Jack looked away. 

His dad stepped closer and gently curled a hand around the back of Jack's head, tilting it forward so he could press a brief kiss to Jack's forehead. _Like a child_ , Jack thought. "I love you, Jack. Thank you for letting me come today," his father said, stepping back. 

Something in Jack wanted to cry. _Like a child_. "I'm—thank you for coming. For making the time." 

"Jack," his father said, a faint plea in his voice. "It's never about 'making time.' You know that." 

"Right," he said. 

His father's hand lifted slightly, then fell again. "I should head to the airport." 

"Okay," Jack said. 

His father hesitated, then pulled him into another hug. "I'll see you at Christmas," he said. 

"Yeah," Jack said. His throat felt tight. 

With another swift pat to Jack's shoulder, his dad turned to leave. Jack watched as his figure receded, then ducked back in to hit the showers before Bittle finished up with his mother. 

For once, the heat of the spray did nothing to ease the tension in his body. 

* * *

Fall gave way to winter, and as a new semester unspooled, the coaches began putting Bittle on Jack's line more frequently at practice. 

It was—well. It wasn't a bad experiment, overall. The early-morning checking clinics had been working. Bittle had improved—he was steadier on the ice. Still prone to fits of spin-o-rama, but noticeably more confident, and more at ease. The nerves he'd described to Jack's father back during Family Weekend seemed to have faded. 

And, goodness knows, Jack understood the value of overcoming nerves. 

And Bittle was…not as irritating as Jack had originally found him. He'd all but taken up residence in the Haus kitchen, and had become part of the background of Jack's life. He'd grown used to finding Bittle underfoot in the Haus, dusted with sugar and smelling of spices, and it even had become not unexpected to find Bittle on his right wing at some point during their practices, skates a blur as he tore up the ice, his speed an exhilarating challenge for Jack. 

The resentment hadn't gone away, though. And if Jack found himself fighting all the harder to prove himself when Bittle shared the ice with him—well, that was Jack's concern. 

Still, somehow, it came as a shock to find Bittle starting on his line in the game against Quinnipiac. 

When his father called that night to talk through the game with him, Jack was still frustrated. Not even the fact they'd won had taken the edge off. 

"Why did you say that to Bittle's mom during Family Weekend?" he burst out, hating himself for asking. "About how Bittle should be on my line." He could still hear Coach Murray's voice in his head: _You're a better player when you're with Bittle_.

There was a pause on the other end of the line as his father absorbed the question. "Ah," he said. 

Jack waited, nearly vibrating with tension. 

"I thought he and you might suit each other's styles of play," his father said at last. "He's—do you remember what it was like playing with Parson?" 

Jack froze, his eyes falling shut. "…Yeah." 

"One of his great skills was his speed, and that challenged you to work harder, and to be more innovative in your playing style. You complemented each other." 

Jack choked back a bitter laugh. "Right." 

"Bittle…" His father paused, then continued thoughtfully. "Bittle's as fast as Parson was, maybe even faster. That alone got me thinking it'd be interesting to see you two play together." 

Jack took a breath. "Okay," he said. 

"More than that, though," his father continued, "he's a generous player. He's responsive on the ice—attuned to the other players in a way not everyone at that level is. There's—a sort of empathy that's apparent there. He seems like the sort of player who can read and anticipate other players, and that level of attunement can produce beautiful teamwork on the ice." 

"You make him sound like some sort of psychic," Jack muttered. 

His father huffed a laugh. "Not psychic," he said. "Just—sensitive to people around him." 

Jack frowned, thinking of the way Bittle's face had fallen in the locker room earlier that evening, at one cold glance from Jack. 

"Parson was fast, and skilled," his father continued. "But he wasn't empathetic. He knew what he wanted, and he knew how to get it, and he was strategic enough to know how to play his skills and yours off each other to achieve the best outcome. And you two worked." 

Jack leaned against the wall, his head bent, eyes closed, as he listened. 

"Bittle's got a similar skill set, but he's a different sort of player entirely," his dad said. "I'd like to see how you two would work together." He paused. "I know you said you've practiced on the same line. It's been working well, right?" 

Jack rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "So well that Hall and Murray apparently decided to put him on my line in the game today." 

"Ahhh," his father breathed. "And…?"

"You already know we won," Jack said. 

"Yes, but—how do you feel about it?" 

Jack slid to the ground and pressed his forehead to his knees. "It worked," he admitted. "It—we work well. Together." 

"He's a good player," his father said. 

Jack made a vague affirmative noise. 

"He can learn to be better from you." 

He breathed a sigh. "Coach Murray said Bittle makes me a better player." 

His father paused for a long moment. "I don't think that's quite fair," he replied at last. "I suspect he challenges you to play your best. You always have that capability in you, though—never doubt that, Jack. But maybe Eric is someone who can help you learn to draw on that every time—to help you be a better player for yourself, and for your team." 

Jack breathed slowly, deliberately, in and out. "Maybe you're right," he said. 

A soft laugh. "I'm always right, Jack—that's what dads are for." 

Jack smiled in spite of himself. "Keep telling yourself that, old man." 

"I will," his dad replied. 

Jack rubbed a hand across his face, and they were quiet together for a moment. Finally, he said, "Thanks, Dad." 

"Anytime, son. You know I love you." 

"Yeah, Dad," he said softly. "I know." 

  
  


* * *

  
  


**3\. May 2015**

The pond glittered in the sun as the import of the day settled over him. 

Graduation was over. He had his diploma. (Or would, rather, once it was sent in the mail. Graduation was a bit anti-climactic like that.) His time as a Samwell student had come to an abrupt end. 

He'd never play another game at Faber with the boys. Never play another game of shinny on the pond, when the winter weather accommodated. 

Never again hear the crash of Ransom and Holster thundering down the stairs from the attic, or Bittle singing along to Beyoncé, hips twitching as he sliced apples or rolled pie crust in the kitchen. 

He could almost still feel the pressure of Bittle's arms around him, the warmth of Bittle's cheek pressed to his shoulder as he whispered goodbye. 

He'd bade farewell to the rest of his friends earlier in the afternoon as, bit by bit, they'd peeled away to their own plans and futures—fist bumps with Ransom and Holster before they hit the road for Buffalo; a bizarre handshake with Johnson (who'd nodded at him and said, "I know you'll come out all right, man, even if this _is_ my sole cameo in this alternative-viewpoint retelling and forward-looking narrative"); a backslapping, shamelessly tearful hug from Shitty (and the entreaty, "Don't you dare be a stranger, you motherfucker, or you _will_ hear from me, mark my words—and you do _not_ want a fucking lawyer on your case, brah"); and a more decorous hug with Lardo (who'd kissed his cheek and told him, "No, really—don't be a stranger. Because Shitty might be loud about it, but I'd _really_ make you regret it," and he'd hugged her tighter, because he believed every word). 

But the ghost of Bittle's goodbye lingered. 

Hard as it might have been for him to believe it even a little over a year ago, he and Bittle had become friends. Close friends, even. 

His father had never said, "I told you so." But, over winter break, the first time his mother had asked, "Who is that you keep texting?" and he'd answered, absently, "Oh, just Bittle and the boys," his father had cleared his throat pointedly and looked very pleased with himself. 

Bittle _had_ helped him become a better player, by bringing out the best in him. Jack didn't quite know how he'd also managed to cozy his way into the heart of Jack's friendship circle. 

(Somehow, he suspected, pie was to blame.) 

As he stared out toward the pond, thinking over everything he was leaving behind today, his fingers worried absently at his tie. 

Bittle's seeming assumption that he'd never see Jack again didn't sit well with him. 

"What?" he'd replied with a disbelieving smile, certain Bittle was chirping him. "Bittle, I'll drive up before the season starts." 

"Oh, of course!" Bittle had replied, with too much enthusiasm. As though he were humoring Jack, and didn't actually believe it. 

And when he'd walked away, his posture had been…defeated. 

He'd looked like the sunshine had been leeched out of him. Bittle should never look like that. 

The sun beamed down, the pond gleamed, the carillon bells in Founder's were chiming songs of celebration for graduation day. His career lay ahead of him—the very one he'd dreamed of for so long. It was a perfect day, a perfect moment on the cusp of the future. 

And yet, something felt off. 

"Those alumni events get longer every year! Ready to head back to the hotel?" 

His father's voice cut into his thoughts, and he froze, his fingers pressed to the silk of his tie. The fine weave rasped under his fingertips. 

"Yeah," he said. "Almost." He hesitated, not yet turning around. "I just, uh…" He struggled to articulate the feeling that was gnawing at him—the sense of unfinished business, of unsettledness, of _wrongness_. "I feel like…I haven't really said goodbye to everyone." 

Behind him, his father chuckled. "Well, it's too late to take another lap around the rink." 

He shook his head, frustrated. "No. It's not that." 

"Ah." A hand fell on his shoulder, and Jack turned to meet his father's knowing gaze. 

"You know what your uncle always says," his father said, lowering his voice and switching to French. "'You miss 100% of the shots you don't take.'"

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean, _go say goodbye_ ," he urged. "You won't be back here for some time, you know? If that's what your heart is telling you, you should go." His gaze bored into Jack's, and he nodded backward toward Founder's—or the Haus. " _Go really say goodbye_."

Jack stared across the pond and thought about Bittle's fingers plucking at his tie anxiously, about the weight and strength of Bittle's arms around him, about the warmth of Bittle's smile when Jack did something that made him happy—something as small as shrugging off his jacket to keep Bittle warm, or attempting to play sous chef for him while he baked, or just sitting with him for coffee before class. He thought about Bittle's sly sass that kept Jack on his toes, his warm sweetness that drew teammates to him like bees to a peach pie cooling on the windowsill, his forgiving nature that'd had him tucking cookies into the suitcase of a hurting friend who'd barely treated him as a friend the night before. 

He thought about Bittle's toned thighs in tiny too-short shorts, and how he'd stumbled at the sight as long ago as last summer, and thought, _I'm an idiot_.

"Oh," he said. He spun around and saw his father's eyebrows lift. "Euh." His dad's expression eased into a smirk. "I'll be back," he said, and ran, his father's chuckles fading into the distance. 

* * *

He'd thought the emotional low of his senior year had been the moment the championship game had ended, with the victory going to their opponent. The ache in his chest—the shuddering, tear-pricking failure of it—had felt worse, more overwhelming, than anything since the moment he'd realized he'd lost all chance at the draft, due to his own stupidity, his own overpowering fears. 

Then, he'd failed his father. 

This year, he'd failed his team. 

And now, as he slammed into the doorway of Bittle's room in the Haus, heart pounding, he felt a sick, swooping sensation in his stomach as he realized that, in his blindness, he'd failed himself. 

Bittle was gone. He'd lost his chance. 

Then, he heard a small sound behind him, and he turned around. 

Bittle. 

He stood in Jack's old room—Chowder's now, or soon anyway—his back to Jack, shoulders hunched and trembling. Feeling a rush of relief that had his heart racing with the knowledge of the precipice he stood at, Jack watched as Bittle lifted a hand and brushed it across his face, shakily warbling a song Jack, even in all his pop music ignorance, recognized by now. 

He crossed the threshold, heart beating hard. "Bittle," he said. 

Bittle jerked around. "HELLO!" he yelped, startled, then yanked out his earbuds. "Hello!' he said again. Then, seeming to realize who was standing in front of him, "Jack?" 

Jack's eyes devoured Bittle's face. How had it come to this? How had they reached this moment? He could remember standing in almost this very spot close to two years ago, complaining to his father about the pie-baking former figure skater who he feared might ruin his team. Instead, Bittle had become inextricably woven into the fabric of their lives, had been the secret ingredient the team hadn't even known they needed. He was a devoted player, a loyal friend. He'd forgiven Jack far more often than he'd deserved. He'd welcomed Jack into the warm circle of his friendship in spite of the many times Jack had proven he didn't merit such affection. Until now, he hadn't realized just how grateful he was for that, or how much the prospect of leaving behind the sunlit warmth of Bittle's regard that had colored and brightened his daily life at Samwell made the future loom so much colder and emptier for its lack. 

Bittle was flailing at him. "Oh, my goodness—why are—is everything all right? You're outta breath! You could have texted—"

And all Jack could think was, _How did I not understand what he meant to me?_

"Bitty," he said, helplessly, and Bittle fell silent. 

He didn't know what to say, couldn't think past the swirl of _He's so beautiful_ and _I almost walked away from this_ and _My god, I think I might love him_ that tossed his mind into disarray. Bittle stared up at him, brown eyes wide and perplexed, cheeks stained with tear tracks, and Jack's breath caught with the gut-punching realization: _He's crying over **me**._

His hands alighted on Bittle's arms, feeling the wiry strength of him, the faint tremor that ran through his frame as Jack held his gaze, then bent his head. 

The first touch of his lips to Bittle's was like coming home after a lifetime banished to a cold and distant solitude. 

Bittle froze for an instant, then gasped and fisted a hand in Jack's robe, his mouth softening under Jack's, welcoming him with his ever-present warmth. 

Jack dropped one hand to the small of Bittle's back, to draw him closer, and lifted the other to his neck, feeling the rapid beat of Bittle's pulse beneath his fingertips, and letting his thumb stroke the soft skin of Bittle's cheek as he coaxed him a little closer, a little deeper, a little more open. 

He drew back slightly to take in Bittle's face so close to his—eyes closed, cheeks flushed, lips parted expectantly. He pressed his lips to Bittle's again, and Bittle made a soft, happy sound against his mouth that made Jack wish this moment could spin out forever. Here, in this room, with this warm, strong, beautiful young man trembling with urgency beneath his hands—it was everything he hadn't known he'd been missing, everything he hadn't realized he'd longed for in these so-many months with Bittle a near-constant presence at his side in the Haus, in class, on the ice. 

He'd grown so accustomed to having Bittle in his life, he'd failed to realize just how keenly he needed him there. 

The first buzz of his phone in his breast pocket was easily ignored in favor of the sweet pressure of Bittle's lips on his. 

The second came like an unwanted wake-up call in the middle of a pleasurable dream. 

"That's...uh," he managed, the words brushing Bittle's lips. He drew back, hating every millimeter of distance between them. "That's my phone. I should…"

Bittle's eyes opened sleepily, and Jack's hand tightened against Bittle's back, reluctant to let this shared moment slip away. 

"…Oh," Bittle managed, his voice low and soft and surprised. 

Withdrawing and glancing at his phone took more strength than Jack would have expected even a bare half-hour ago. 

There was a new text from his mother: _Where did you go?_

A second text from his mother: _Jack, we're going to miss our reservation if we don't leave very soon._

A subsequent text from his father that was nothing but a series of emoji winking and blowing kisses. 

He flushed. "…I gotta go." 

Bittle bent his head. "Okay." 

Jack touched his hands to Bittle's elbows, and he waited until Bittle lifted his face to make eye contact again. "I gotta go, but I'll text you. Okay?" 

His gaze clung imploringly to Bittle's, while Bittle searched his expression before nodding and answering softly, "Okay." 

Jack drew back, his hands sliding down to grasp Bittle's. Bittle's hands were warm, and rough in spots, whether from hockey or from baking. Jack could feel the strength in them, and he knew how dexterous they were. He knew how much he never wanted to let them go. 

In a rush, Jack stepped forward again, and Bittle surged to his toes as they clung to each other for one last kiss. 

When he drew away this time, he retreated toward the hallway to put distance between them, however unwanted, so that he wouldn't give in to the temptation to stay forever. "I'll text you," he promised. 

Bittle's expression was still faintly dazed as he stood there, phone clutched to his chest, his eyes following Jack as he backed out the doorway. "Okay," he said again. 

Jack turned and thundered down the stairs, before he could give in to the desire to ignore his responsibilities to his family. 

He ran out the front door and headed in the direction of Lake Quad, but then paused and turned around to get one last glimpse of the Haus. He almost imagined he could see Bittle through one of the upper windows, honeyed hair glinting in the sun. 

He pulled out his phone. 

_I miss you already_ , he texted, and turned to resume his run. 

* * *

His phone buzzed steadily on the drive to the restaurant, and through lunch with his parents and George, while Bittle was on the shuttle to Logan, and then awaiting his flight home. 

His mom just raised her eyebrows every time another text lit up his phone. George looked curious and a bit sly. His father smirked through the entire meal and looked immensely pleased with himself as he got back behind the wheel for the drive down to Providence. 

As he gazed around his new apartment, it struck him again how blind and stupid he'd been not to realize his feelings—he'd chosen this apartment based largely on the spaciousness of the kitchen, and he'd chosen the kitchen with Bittle in mind. 

He'd actually texted Bittle photos of every kitchen in every apartment he and his mom had looked at that day. This was the only one Bittle had responded to with a string of exclamation points. Apparently, the oven met his high standards. 

(That had been useful knowledge for Bittle's birthday, too.) 

He ran his fingers along the countertop, picturing what else he might need to buy to accommodate a baker. The thought of Bittle here, in this space—and this life—that Jack was carving out for his own, filled him with a glow of warmth, and he found himself smiling helplessly down at his hands. 

"Your phone seems to have gone quiet," his dad said, sidling up next to him to lean back against the sink. His mother was fussing about the apartment, chattering about hanging pictures and getting his things better unpacked and organized before she and his father left tomorrow, so that Jack could feel more at home. Jack turned to meet his father's amused expression. "He on a plane home?" his dad asked. 

Jack could feel his cheeks warm, and he glanced down again, spreading his palms against the cool granite. "Yeah," he said. "Won't land for another hour or so." 

"I assume he'll have a flood of texts waiting for him?" his dad asked, voice sly. 

Jack cleared his throat, his cheeks heating further. "Euh. Yeah. Maybe." 

His dad nudged Jack's shoulder with his own. "Good," he said, and Jack could hear the smile in his voice, even if he couldn't quite bring himself to meet his dad's eyes. He wasn't sure he was comfortable with anyone seeing clearly just how happy he was in that moment. 

They were silent together for a brief time, before Jack finally looked up and found himself asking, "How did you know?" 

His dad tapped his temple. "Dads are psychic. It's a thing." 

Jack rolled his eyes. 

His father shrugged. "The way you talked about him. It was different from how you talked about your other friends, like Shitty. It was—happier." 

Jack turned away again, thinking. 

"That made me suspect," his father continued. "But as for how I knew? I saw how you looked at him." 

Jack turned to meet his father's gaze again, surprised. "How do I look at him?" 

His dad smiled, and there was a softness to it. "The same way I look at your mother—like I can't believe my damn fool luck that she walked into my life and decided to stick around with an idiot like me." 

Jack laughed and bumped his father's shoulder. 

His father turned and wrapped an arm around Jack's shoulder, tugging him close. "I'm happy for you, Jack," he said. 

Jack let himself grin. "I'm pretty happy for me, too." 

  
  


* * *

  
  


**4\. August 2015**

Fourth of July weekend had been an eternity and a half ago. 

Jack's hat was pulled low over his face as he waited at Arrivals on a morning in early August. His phone had said the flight from Atlanta was expected on time, and the airport screens had updated to say it had landed, and Bittle had texted to say he was waiting to disembark. So now it was just a matter of waiting—the longest half-hour of the summer so far. 

When he spotted Bittle—tan and golden with summer, a Samwell duffel bag slung over one strong shoulder—it was all he could do to keep his hands fisted in his pockets to prevent himself from running to Bittle, yanking him close, and never letting him go. 

Bittle had no such hesitation. When he spotted Jack in the crowd, a grin burst over his face like a sunbeam, and he made a beeline toward Jack, stopping less than a foot away, where he turned that bright smile directly up at Jack's face. "Why, hello there, Mr. Zimmermann," he teased, his drawl honey-sweet and layered thick with months of Southern summer, and Jack wanted to kiss it straight out of his mouth. 

Bittle beamed, and Jack stared, knowing his smile was too fond and too obvious. But when Bittle threw his arms around Jack to pull him in for a hug, Jack didn't resist. 

The feel of Bittle against his body for the first time in nearly a month had his fingers tightening in the fabric of Bittle's button-down shirt at the small of his back, and he breathed in the sugar-spice warmth that always seemed to surround him. He made himself pull back. 

"It's good to see you, Bits," he said gruffly. His fingers itched to touch Bittle's hair, freshly shorn at the sides; to slide along the warm, tense strength of his bare forearms; to cup his jaw and draw his face close to Jack's. 

Bittle's pupils dilated, and he ducked his head and took a breath, before looking back up at Jack with a smile that was fractionally less obvious. "Thank you for inviting me," he said, almost primly. 

Jack smiled down at him, helplessly fond. "Those Southern manners at work." 

Bittle lifted his chin. "Mama Bittle isn't in the business of raising savages, _Mister_ Zimmermann." He bumped his shoulder into Jack's arm, then grabbed him by the elbow to tow him toward one of the baggage carousels. "C'mon, I need to fetch my suitcase. Make yourself useful, mister tall, strong Providence Falconer, hmm?" 

* * *

They'd been skyping almost every night since May. Jack had gotten to know Bittle's childhood bedroom before he'd ever set foot in Madison. Similarly, Bittle had commanded Jack to take him on a virtual tour of his new apartment months ago, so he had some idea of the look and the layout. He'd mostly skyped Bittle from his bedroom, as they talked to each other about their days before falling asleep at night. But sometimes they'd talked early enough in the evening that Jack had been in the living room, or preparing dinner in the kitchen. The point being, Bittle had seen the apartment, and he'd definitely seen the kitchen. 

So, the noises Bittle made when he first set foot in the apartment, toed off his shoes, and turned to enter the kitchen were…surprising and unwarranted. Not to mention uncomfortably arousing. 

"Ohhh, Jack, the photos didn't do it justice," he cooed, actually petting the oven. 

"Bittle—" he said. 

"I bet you haven't baked a single thing in here yet, have you?" Bittle was navigating his way around the kitchen, running his fingers along the granite countertops and the glass-fronted cabinets and the stainless-steel appliances. 

"No, I—" He watched Bittle, confused. His fingers itched to touch him, but Bittle seemed intent on touching cabinetry. "I mean, that's more your thing? I figured…"

Bittle turned around and leaned back against the countertop, one corner of his smile curling wickedly upward, his eyes warm. Jack took three steps into the kitchen without even thinking. "Were you saving your kitchen for me, Jack?" Bittle purred. 

" _Crisse_ ," Jack muttered, pressing Bittle back against the cabinets and sealing their mouths together. Bittle laughed into his mouth, and Jack loved it, loved everything about this beautiful, golden, sunshine boy who'd, however unbelievably, opened his heart to _Jack_ , of all people. 

Bittle wrapped his arms around Jack's neck and drew him closer, pressing their bodies together as he devoured Jack's mouth. "God, I've been thinking about this for a _month_ ," he gasped as Jack pressed his mouth to Bittle's mouth, his cheek, his neck, breathing the humid warmth and sweetness of him, tasting the salt of his skin, real and here and _in Jack's kitchen_.

"Jack," Bittle moaned, his hands scrabbling at the back of Jack's shirt, and Jack unceremoniously yanked it over his head, flinging it in the general direction of the living room as Bittle made approving noises and began to run his hands over Jack's shoulders, arms, pecs. He pushed Jack away for a moment, and Jack teetered on the edge of confusion and outrage before he realized Bittle was holding him at arm's length to allow his eyes to drink in the sight of him. He flushed, embarrassed, and Bittle lifted his gaze to Jack's face. His eyes were full of wonder. "God, Jack. I don't understand what I did to deserve you." 

"Bits," he said, helplessly. He lunged forward to press his mouth to Bittle's again. Bittle was all wet heat and welcome, teasing tongue and soft lips, talented fingers that sank into Jack's hair as Bittle murmured soft, dirty, irresistible noises directly into Jack's mouth. Jack ran his hands down Bittle's flanks and over his pert ass, which had Bittle pressing his hips insistently into Jack's. He slid his fingers farther down to grasp Bittle's thighs and lift him onto the countertop. Bittle groaned into his mouth, writhing to press his hips into Jack's and locking his ankles around Jack's waist. 

Jack wrapped his arms around Bittle's back, and kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him. 

There hadn't been time or space for much of this in Madison. It had been a too-short, too-fevered few days of hellacious heat and mind-hazing humidity, and Eric Bittle in too-short shorts and shoulder-baring tank tops, and his omnipresent parents forcing Jack to check himself—to guard his words, to school his expression, to bank the heat in his gaze so as not to reveal the nature of their relationship before Bittle was ready. There'd been a handful of stolen kisses in Bittle's bedroom, but Jack had slept in the guest room Mrs. Bittle had thoughtfully made up for him. There'd been handholding in Coach's truck when Bittle had taken him into town for a tour of Madison, but they'd walked a decorous distance apart in public. 

And there'd been blankets in the bed of the pickup truck under the distant sparkle and fizz of fireworks, as they'd parked in a secret spot Bittle knew, away from the press and gaze of the townspeople, and they'd finally been free to kiss and touch and explore and discover. He'd watched, enraptured, as Bittle writhed under his touch, had sealed his mouth over Bittle's and swallowed his cries as he jerked in Jack's hand and came all over Jack's fingers. Bittle had clung to him afterward, hiding his face against Jack's shirtfront, and Jack had wrapped his body around him, letting himself savor the perfect rightness of the moment, hoping he could remember this all-consuming feeling for the rest of his life. 

And now Bittle was here, in Jack's home, and there were no parents, no townspeople, no restrictions. 

Bittle broke their kiss and pressed his face to the crook of Jack's neck, panting. His hips rocked against Jack's, and he could feel how hard Bittle was, even through both their shorts. "Take me to bed?" Bittle whispered, his hands flexing against the expanse of Jack's naked back. 

Jack pressed his mouth to Bittle's neck, eliciting another moan, and slid an arm under Bittle's ass, lifting him from the counter and holding him firmly to Jack's chest. Bittle quickly wrapped his arms around Jack's neck, moaning into Jack's ear at the sensation of their still-clothed erections rubbing together as Jack carried him down the hall to his bedroom. 

He crouched to set Bittle reverently on the bed, extricating himself from the tangle of Bittle's limbs, even as Bittle whimpered a protest and made grabby hands at him. He knelt in front of Bittle, curling his hands around Bittle's trim waist before sliding one hand to the row of buttons that marched down the front of his shirt. "May I?" he asked. 

The sharp edge of hunger in Bittle's expression softened, and he lifted a hand to Jack's jaw and drew him forward into a kiss that was sweeter than any they'd exchanged yet today. "Jack," he murmured. "Yes. Everything, yes." 

He bared Bittle's skin one slow slip of a button at a time, while Bittle's chest heaved with his excited breaths. When he touched the button closure of Bittle's shorts and lifted his gaze to meet Bittle's, Bittle nodded eagerly, and lifted his hips to help Jack remove his shorts and underwear. Out of his clothes, he was hard, and eager, and so, so beautiful. 

Bittle leaned back on his hands, watching Jack, his eyes wide, a flush spreading down his chest. Jack spread his hands over Bittle's thighs, stroking slowly up and down. Bittle's cock jerked at the sensation, and his lips fell open. "Jack," he said. 

Jack kissed his knee, pressed kisses up his thigh to his hip. He stroked his thumbs along Bittle's hips, while Bittle trembled, breathing shallowly as his eyes followed Jack's every movement. His dick was hard and straight, already wet at the tip. Jack leaned forward between Bittle's legs to kiss his mouth again, stroking his hands back up Bittle's flanks, brushing his thumbs over Bittle's erect nipples. Bittle gasped into his mouth and wound an arm around Jack's neck to keep him close, to pull him down as Bittle lay back on the bed. Jack rose up from his knees and crawled onto the bed between Bittle's naked thighs. 

"What do you want?" he whispered, pressing his abdomen down, so that Bittle's cock brushed against his stomach. He could feel Bittle jerk against him at the movement. 

"I want you naked," Bittle said, biting gently at Jack's lower lip. Jack moaned and seized Bittle's mouth again, sucking on Bittle's tongue until Bittle was writhing against him. 

Jack drew back, stroking his thumbs along Bittle's cheeks, framing his lovely, open face. He settled back on his knees, then stood to remove his own shorts and underwear. Bittle levered up on his elbows, watching avidly as Jack's clothing dropped to the floor. Bittle held his gaze, then deliberately spread his knees wider. 

Jack's cock jerked at the sight, and he couldn't stop himself wrapping a hand around it. 

"No, that's my job," Bittle murmured, and, _Crisse_ , but Bittle was going to be the death of him. "Come here." 

Jack settled back onto the bed, between Bittle's thighs, their bodies pressed together, hips rolling, as Jack let himself sink into Bittle's mouth once more. Bittle ran his hands down Jack's back, then pulled away from the kiss to sigh sadly. 

Jack froze. "What is it?" he asked. 

Bittle pouted. "My arms aren't long enough to reach your ass." 

Jack drew back and stared at the sullen expression on Bittle's face. Then he buried his face in Bittle's shoulder and began to laugh, hard. 

"S'not funny," Bittle sulked. "You realize your ass is basically the number-one attraction in this relationship." 

Still laughing, Jack rolled partway off Bittle and lifted a hand to stroke Bittle's face. "You mean it's not my endearing hockey robot mode? My ease and comfort with other human beings?" 

Bittle frowned, as though deep in thought. " _Maybe_ ," Bittle drawled, "it was the checking practices. I mean, who wouldn't fall for a man who wakes him up at 4 a.m. to slam him against the boards?" 

Jack lifted an eyebrow at that, and Bittle flushed and began to giggle. "OK," he said. "Bad example." 

Jack turned Bittle's face to his so they were kissing again, softly. "You can touch my ass anytime you want, Bittle," he said solemnly, and Bittle collapsed into laughter, hiding his face against Jack's shoulder. 

Then he lifted his head and practically slithered down the bed, just to reach around and grasp one of Jack's ass cheeks. "Dear lord," he said, spreading his fingers, then squeezing. He met Jack's embarrassed gaze, eyes bright and sparkling. "This thing is a work of art, Jack." 

Jack rolled onto his back, hiding his face with one arm, and Bittle laughed delightedly and straddled him, crawling up his body to pull Jack's arm away from his flaming face. He kissed the tip of Jack's nose, his forehead, each of his burning cheeks, and lingered at his mouth before drawing away, his face hovering over Jack's, the fingers of one hand stroking Jack's hair. "You're so beautiful, Jack," he said softly, and Jack felt himself blushing further, and turned his head. Bittle caught his cheek and turned his face so that their eyes met again. "That's not why I'm here," Bittle said, his tone serious. His gaze held Jack's, eyes imploring. "I need you to know that, Jack. It's—there are so, so many reasons you're important to me. Sometimes it's actually hard to believe someone like you actually wants someone like me." 

Jack slid a hand into Bittle's hair, the way he'd yearned to at the airport. "I love you," he said. 

Bittle sucked in a breath. 

Jack steeled himself. "I'm sorry if it's too soon, or it's—sudden. But—it's. I want you to know that's how I feel. I think I've loved you for a long time." 

"Oh, Jack." He was astonished to realize Bittle appeared to be blinking back tears. 

"No," he said automatically, reaching to brush away the wetness. "Don't—"

"Jack," Bittle said, catching Jack's hand and pressing his lips into the palm. He drew Jack's hand away, and Jack could see he was smiling—beaming, even. "Jack, I love you, too. I have for _ages_."

"Bitty," Jack said. His heart was racing, and Bittle was crying, and he didn't even know how to cope with this moment. Everything was a mess, and everything was _perfect_. "Bits," he said helplessly, and surged up to kiss Bittle deeply, tasting the salt of Bittle's tears between their lips. 

He sat upright, Bittle sprawled across his lap, his thighs spread wide over Jack's, and wrapped an arm around Bittle's waist to pull them flush together, deepening the kiss. Bittle curled his arms around Jack's neck as he moaned into his mouth and began to grind his hips into Jack's, still hard, still more than eager. Jack wrapped his other hand around both of their erections. "Bits," he gasped, "is this okay? Are you—I have condoms—"

Bittle buried his face in the side of Jack's neck with a small noise, then drew back, cheeks red as he met Jack's gaze. "I've never—" he said. "No one else—"

Jack kissed him, hard. "I'm clean," he assured him, breathing the words into Bittle's mouth. "It's been ages, my tests were clean—"

"Oh, god, please," Bittle moaned, clinging to Jack. " _Please_."

The bottle of lube in his bedside drawer was too far away to reach, so he spat into his hand and began to stroke their cocks together faster, more tightly. Bittle's hips moved with urgent, almost desperate jerks, and he panted against Jack's mouth as his climax rose. 

The friction on his cock, the sweat-slick slide of Bittle's body against his, the intimacy of Bittle's breath mixing with his own, and the heady knowledge that Bittle _loved_ him, that he'd said so, that Jack hadn't scared him by going all 110% on him, that he _loved Jack back_ —it dizzied him, and overwhelmed him, and almost before he knew it, he felt the electric sensation of orgasm pulsing through him, his cock twitching and spilling in his hand, and Bittle was crying out at the same time, his own dick jerking in Jack's fist as he moaned out his pleasure into Jack's skin. 

In the aftermath, Bittle curled into Jack, pressing their skin together at every available contact point, and Jack felt his breathing settle as he savored the joy of feeling Bittle's fierce heart beating against his own chest. 

After a few minutes of breathing, of touching, of quiet, languid calm, Jack reluctantly rose from the bed. Bittle made a noise of protest, and Jack kissed the top of his head. "Gotta clean up," he murmured. "I'll be right back." He ducked into the en suite bathroom to wash his hands and clean the evidence of their mutual pleasure from his body, and he returned to the bedroom with a warm, damp washcloth to clean Bittle as well. 

Bittle squirmed at the touch of the cloth, and Jack kissed his chest, his belly, his hip affectionately. "We could shower," he suggested. 

Bittle yawned, stretching. "Maybe later," he said, his eyes closing. "M'tired. M'gonna take a nap, and then m'gonna bake you a pie. Need to break in your big, shiny kitchen, 'kay?" 

Jack sat on the bed next to him and smiled, catching Bittle's hand when he reached out blindly to Jack, and pressing his lips to it. Bittle blinked his eyes open and smiled sleepily at him, curling his fingers around Jack's. 

On the floor, Jack's phone began to vibrate in the pocket of his abandoned shorts. 

Bittle quirked a lazy eyebrow at him, and stretched to grab one of Jack's pillows and snuggle into it. "Go ahead," he said. "Might be work-related?" 

Jack fished for the phone, and saw his dad's name on the caller ID. He debated answering, but Bittle was already half asleep, and he generally tried not to let calls from his parents go unanswered if he could help it, because—well, they'd had cause to worry. He sat back on the edge of the mattress and picked up the call. " _Allo, Papa_."

"Jack." His father's voice was warm. "Hey. Just wanted to confirm plans for your mother's and my visit. Next Tuesday still works, right? We're going to drive down, bring you some things from the house." 

"Oh," Jack said. "Yeah, sounds great. You don't need to bring me anything, though." 

"Nonsense, your mother insisted," his dad said. "A few familiar pieces of home to help you settle into your new place better." 

"Okay," Jack said, watching Bittle's chest rise and fall. He wasn't quite asleep yet, but his eyes were barely open as he watched Jack with a faint smile. "Thanks." 

"You're sure you don't want us to come down this week for your birthday?" 

"Oh," Jack said, turning away. "No, it's okay. It's—I've got Bittle visiting, remember?" 

"Oh, that's right!" his father said. 

Jack frowned suspiciously at the phone. 

"Has he already arrived?" 

"Ah, yeah," Jack answered, glancing back over at where Bittle lay curled on his side, one eye open, apparently more interested in Jack's phone conversation, now that he'd heard his name. "Picked him up at the airport a little while ago." 

"Great, glad to hear it. I should let you go, then." His voice turned sly. "I'm sure you have plenty of, ah, _catching up_ to do." 

"Ahhh. Haha. Yeah, I—I guess so." Even Jack could hear the stilted awkwardness in his reply. 

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. "You're already in bed, aren't you." 

"No!" he yelped. 

His father laughed. 

"Papa, stop." 

His father kept laughing. 

" _Papa_."

"Let me talk to Eric," his father said, still laughing. 

" _No._ "

"He's right there, isn't he." 

" _Papa_."

His father laughed again. "All right, son. I was young once, too." 

"Ugh, Papa, _stop_. I don't want to think about that." 

"Jack, when a man and a woman—or a man and a man—love each other very much—"

"I'M HANGING UP NOW." 

His father laughed. "DON'T DO ANYTHING I WOULDN'T—"

Jack hung up the call, dropped the phone, and buried his face in his hands. 

Behind him, Bittle was giggling. "Honey, I only understood about two words of that—"

"Sounds like we need to practice your French while you're here…"

Bittle swatted at his thigh. "Oh, hush, you. The only French I'm interested in this week is French kissing," he pronounced with a wink. " _As I was saying_ , I didn't understand much, but it sounded like a very dramatic conversation." 

Jack rubbed a hand over his face. "Yeah. Pretty sure my dad called to find out if we'd already had sex." 

Bittle squeaked and sat up, holding the pillow as though to shield his nakedness. 

"Too late, Bits," Jack sighed. "Sorry. My dad jokes he's psychic, but really he's just nosy." 

Bittle chuckled and inched across the bed to curl his arms around Jack from behind. "Or I'm just that obvious about how I feel about you." 

Jack turned and tilted Bittle's head up for a slow kiss. "Actually," he said, "I suspect it's the other way around." 

Bittle beamed and kissed him again, then stretched and climbed off the bed. "All right, then, sweetheart. Now that we've broken in your bedroom, it's time to break in that gorgeous kitchen. I do believe I promised you some pie." 

  
  


* * *

  
  


**5\. October 2019**

There was always something special about coming home to Montreal, even just for a day or two. And at Thanksgiving, when the brilliant fall foliage was close to its peak and the promise of warmth and food and family beckoned, well, it just felt all the more…right. 

The fact that it coincided with the start of hockey season also may have had a little something to do with his traditional fondness for Thanksgiving. 

A pre-season game against the Habs had been excuse enough to keep him in town for the holiday, and Bittle had flown up to attend the game with his parents and share in the festive family meal. Jack's mother had long since learned to just step back and entrust Bittle with the dessert preparations for any family occasion—because Bittle was, in every way that counted, family now. 

Six years since they'd met. Four years since their first kiss. Four years since Bittle had agreed to be his boyfriend. Almost four years since he'd come out to management, and then to the team. Three years since Jack had been publicly outed—which hadn't exactly been the best period of his life. But, in retrospect, it hadn't been the worst, either. And it had paved the way for him to be open about his relationship with Bittle, which was a blessing he'd never stop feeling grateful for. 

It had been over two years since they'd moved in together. Jack couldn't picture his life without him. Apparently, neither could anyone else. 

"Jackabelle," Shitty had said recently, "you know I think of marriage primarily as an oppressive relic of the not-so-distant days when it served as a financial transaction between families. But, uh, bro, I really think Bitty might appreciate if you made an honest man out of him." 

"Dude, you're marrying Lardo," Jack had pointed out. 

"Chyeah," Shitty had agreed. "But it's a pretty sweet deal, legally. 'Sides, she's totally stoked to rock that traditional red look." 

"If Lardo has anything to do with it, I'm betting it'll probably look anything but traditional," Jack had mused. 

"Got that fuckin' right," Shitty had said with a grin. 

Bittle's parents had taken the news of his homosexuality with greater grace and aplomb than Bittle had ever dared hope. (Jack knew just how little he'd dared to hope, and he'd never forget the buckets of relieved tears Bittle had cried out on Jack's shoulder the night he'd finally come out to his Mama and Coach.) They also had been surprisingly welcoming toward Jack in his role as their son's boyfriend. It probably helped that he'd met and gotten to know both of them long before they came to understand his relationship with their son. But sometimes it was still weird for him to be greeted so warmly and effusively by Suzanne, and find his ever-anxious mind thinking, incongruously, _Your son loves to put his tongue up my ass_ , like she could somehow read the knowledge in his face. 

Dealing with parents was so very strange. 

But now even Suzanne and Coach were getting in on the not-so-subtle marriage hints. When they'd been down in Madison for Fourth of July—still in separate bedrooms; Mama Bittle might know intellectually that her son was sleeping with another man, but unmarried couples did _not_ share a bed in the Bittle household—Suzanne had made "offhand" comment after comment about Dicky's favorite places around Madison, and which of them were the most romantic in case he, _you know_ , had anything he might want to _say_ , or to _ask_. Hell, even Coach, when Jack had offered to assist him in grilling steaks, had talked gruffly about how he and Suzanne were married "when we were even younger than Junior is now, 'cause when it's right, you know it's right." 

And Jack knew it was right. He'd known that for a long time. 

He'd bought a ring the week Bittle moved in with him. 

He'd hidden it in the storage area off his bedroom, tucked away in a box of old books from Samwell, because he felt he could be pretty certain Bittle wouldn't go nosing through a box labeled "Weimar Republic—reference." It comforted him to know it was there, to know he had a plan in place. Not an exact plan, mind, at least not right away. But he knew the endgame. He knew what he was working toward. 

And he'd finally decided—it was going to be next spring. His and Shitty's five-year reunion was coming up in late May, and he was going to propose to Bittle on the ice at Faber. He had it all planned. He'd even already talked to Coaches Hall and Murray about arranging to reserve the ice for some private time that weekend. 

Of course, if the Falcs made it to the Stanley Cup Final, that plan would be postponed until a bit later in the summer. But that was the sort of wrench in the works Jack was more than happy to accommodate. 

Either way, by next Fourth of July, he intended to be engaged to Eric Bittle. 

When Bittle had run out to buy a tragically missing ingredient, and Jack had finally had a moment alone with Coach and Suzanne over the Fourth, he'd told them as much, and formally asked their permission to marry their son. Suzanne, no surprise, had cried. But even Coach had looked emotional, and his voice had been gruffer than usual when he gave Jack a firm handshake and told him he'd be a welcome addition to their family. That had made Jack feel almost like crying himself, and they'd all had to spend a few moments collecting themselves before Bittle had returned from the store. 

His own parents, Jack had told even before he bought the ring. 

"Sweetie," his mother had said, "isn’t it awfully soon? He's just graduated." 

"I'm not going to propose right away," he said. "But—I am going to. Eventually. I…I just want to do it right. But I want to be prepared." 

His mother had hugged him tightly, sniffling. "We love you so much, honey. And we love Eric, too. I'm so happy you found each other." 

His father had ruffled his hair, but there'd been a sheen to his eyes. "Once Jack got his head out of his ass and realized he loved the boy, that is." 

His mother had swatted Bob. "Are you ever going to stop taking credit for playing Cupid?" 

"Never," he swore. 

So, his parents had known almost as long as he'd known himself that he had every intention of marrying Bittle in the not-too-distant future. Which made it all the stranger that his father had started to drop hints about the joys of engagement and marriage. 

In the weight room: 

"You don't find a young man like that every dynasty, Jack." 

"Did you and Bittle watch _Mulan_ again?" 

"Don't go knocking Disney, Jack." 

In the kitchen: 

"Your mother and I got these plates as a wedding gift, you know." 

"Thirty-odd years later, and you're still using the same plates?" 

"Gotta pick a spouse who's smart enough to choose the right things for the wedding registry, Jack." 

In the den, watching Bittle chattering to his mother while he whipped up his Thanksgiving pies: 

"That’s a young man who ought to be married." 

"And he will be, Papa." 

"That's a young man who ought to be married soon." 

"Nagging doesn't become you." 

"I'm just saying—sometimes you've got to follow your instincts and _act_."

"And sometimes it's worth executing a well-prepared play." 

His father had groaned and buried his face in his hands. 

"Is this about grandkids?" Jack asked, confused. "Did one of your friends have another grandbaby recently or something?" 

His father sighed. "No, it's nothing to do with grandkids." He brightened and leaned forward. "Although, as long as we're on the subject—"

"Marriage first, Papa. Grandkids later." 

His father settled back into his squashy old armchair that Jack's mom still hadn't managed to make him part with. "Fine," he said. "Don't take any of my freely given advice or anvil-size hints. You've always been a stubborn creature." 

A chill settled over him. "What are you—is Bittle going to break up with me?" 

His father's mouth fell open. "Where on earth would you get that idea?" 

"You just— _hints_. Is something wrong?" He felt his heartrate start to speed up. "Is he leaving me? Is that why you're so insistent that I lock him down somehow?" 

"Jack, no." His father heaved himself out of the ancient armchair and took a seat next to Jack on the sofa, rubbing a hand steadily, soothingly against Jack's back until his breathing calmed. "That young man thinks the sun rises and sets on you." 

Jack laughed, a bit wetly, and rubbed his face with his hands. "That's impossible. He _is_ the sun." 

His father wrapped his arm around Jack's shoulder and pulled him in for a half-hug. "You two are a pair of beautiful idiots, and you deserve each other." 

"That's the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me," Jack mumbled into his shoulder, and his father laughed. 

* * *

Dinner was wonderful, dessert was decadent, and Jack's parents banished him and Bittle from the kitchen while they took care of cleanup. 

Bittle curled into him on the sofa, both of them sated and sleepy after a good meal. Their flight back would leave bright and early in the morning, so they'd have to retire early tonight. But not yet. 

Late-afternoon sun glowed golden through the windows and lit Bittle like a painting, and when Bittle turned his face up to Jack's, his brown eyes deep and luminous, Jack's breath caught. 

_Maybe Papa is right_ , he thought. _Maybe I should just act._

Bittle reached up to settle a hand on Jack's jaw, and drew him down for a long, sweet kiss. "Jack," he murmured. "You know I love you. So, so much." 

"Bits," he whispered, turning toward Bittle, his fingers reaching to touch Bittle's face, his arm, anything. 

But Bittle slithered away from him, sliding off the edge of the sofa until he knelt at Jack's feet. He caught Jack's reaching hand between his, and Jack stared at him in confusion. Why was Bittle on his knees? 

… _One_ knee. 

Jack's heart began pounding in his throat as Bittle looked down and reached one hand into his pocket to draw out a small box. "Jack," he said, his voice wavering. He looked up again to meet Jack's eyes, and his expression bore the sort of determination Jack had seen in him on the ice, and Jack loved him so very, very fiercely in that moment. 

Bittle turned Jack's hand over and placed the box in his open palm, clasping Jack's hand and the box between his own palms. "Jack," he said, voice gaining strength. "I—when I came to Samwell, all I wanted was a chance to be myself, and to learn to feel free. I never would have guessed I'd meet someone like you." He took a breath, his hands tightening around Jack's. "You were tough on me, but I needed you to be tough. You helped me face my fears, and overcome them. You became my friend—my _best_ friend. You made me fall in love with you." Jack felt tears start to prick at his eyes, looking at the expression on Bittle's face. "I never dreamed you'd ever love me back, but you did. You _do_."

"I do, Bitty," Jack vowed. "I always will." 

Bittle's smile positively glowed. "Jack," he said. "Sweetheart. I love you so much. Will you marry me?" 

"Yes," Jack said, and surged forward to capture Bittle's face with his free hand and draw him into a hard kiss. 

Bittle laughed giddily into his mouth. "You haven't even seen the ring yet," he said. 

When Jack could bring himself to draw away even slightly, he flipped open the box and found a gold band with twin hockey sticks engraved on it. He smiled and plucked it out of the box, and glanced up to see Bittle looking sly. 

"Don't forget to read the inscription inside," Bittle said, voice a little too innocent. 

Jack turned the ring to catch the light, and read the words inside: _Eat more protein_.

He laughed again, feeling almost dizzy with joy, and caught Bittle's grinning lips with his. Almost distantly, he could hear his parents applauding. 

He drew back from the kiss, but reached to lift Bittle from his perch on one knee, pulling him into Jack's lap to hold him close. "You knew about this," he accused his father. 

"I am a Southern gentleman," Bittle said primly, belying his words by curling up shamelessly in Jack's lap, like an oversize cat, and burying his face against Jack's chest. Jack's arms closed around him, holding him tight to his heart. "I asked your parents' permission to seek your hand in marriage, of course." 

Jack lifted an eyebrow at his dad, and his father only shrugged elaborately. "If you like it, then you should have put a ring on it, Jack." 

Bittle began to giggle uncontrollably, and Jack groaned. " _Crisse_ , he's got you listening to Beyoncé now, too?" 

Bittle's head popped up at that, and he positively squealed, twisting to straddle Jack's lap. "Jack!" he cried. "You recognized her lyrics! You _do_ love me!" And he planted a big, wet kiss on Jack's mouth. 

Jack laughed, his arms tightening around his fiancé. "Never, ever doubt it, Bits." 

  
  


* * *

  
  


**+1. June 2023**

They'd been warned to prepare for delays and waiting and anxiety, so when the call came earlier than expected, that brought its own spike of nerves. 

It was perhaps the only time Jack had ever felt grateful his team hadn't made it to the Final. 

He had two Stanley Cup rings by now. It didn't do for a man to be greedy. But, oh, he was. And he'd get there again at some point. But, thankfully, not this year. 

Because it meant that this year, he was home when they received the phone call that would change their lives forever. 

They had a son. 

* * *

Jack's parents booked the first flight they could get to Providence when they knew the baby was coming home, and Jack knew his in-laws wouldn't be too far behind them. 

His mother cried and cooed and beamed as expected. His father's expression, when Jack first placed his son into his father's arms, was something more complicated. 

"He's beautiful, Jack," his father said, his voice hoarse. 

"We named him Robert James," Jack said. "After you, and after Bitty's maternal grandfather." 

His father's mouth twisted as he stared down at his grandson's face, and Jack saw him swallow. "That's—" He blinked rapidly. "Thank you, Jack. Eric." 

His father was crying, Jack realized. He didn't think he'd seen his father cry since—since Jack had woken up in the hospital, half a lifetime ago. 

Bittle exchanged a wide-eyed glance with him, then touched Jack's shoulder before gently taking the baby into his arms, just as he started to fuss. He cooed and whispered to him, subtly beckoning Jack's mother away and leaving him alone with his father, who was rubbing a hand across his face. 

"Sorry," his father said, his voice thick. "I just—I wasn't expecting—"

"Papa," Jack said, heart in his throat. "I owe you an apology." He sighed, hunching his shoulders, and feeling the weight of the years pressing down on them—the shrugged-off touches, the spurned expressions of affection, the baseless, irrational fears that he'd let shadow their relationship for too long. "I probably owe you about a million of them, actually." 

Bob frowned at him, looking confused. "What for?" 

"For…" Jack hesitated. "For doubting you. For ever doubting you." 

"I don't…" A spasm crossed his father's face. "Jack…"

"No, don't, it was never—it was _never_ about you," Jack said, begging his father to understand. "It was me, it was all me. I didn't know who I was without hockey. I didn’t know how to be anything _but_ hockey. And that was never you, but I didn't understand it at the time. I didn't understand that I was never just hockey to you—and I…I had a hard time believing you could love me if I weren't everything you expected me to be." 

His father swallowed again, and pressed a fist to his mouth for a moment before he could speak again. "Jack," he said. "You never needed to be anything other than exactly who you are. I—" His expression was raw. "Jack, there aren't even words for how much I love you." 

"I know that," Jack managed, his voice tight around the lump in his throat. "I think—somewhere, I think I've always known that. But the _fear_ …"

" _Crisse_ ," his father said, and his arms swallowed Jack in a tight, almost suffocating hug. He pressed a fierce kiss to Jack's hair. "Jack, you are my son, and I will always love you, no matter what." 

Jack clung to his father, breathing in the scent of him, so familiar even these decades later, so evocative of playful drills on the rink behind his parents' house, of teasing and roughhousing, of childhood and _home_. "I love you, too, Papa," he whispered. 

"I will always love you," his father said firmly, "no matter how much of an idiot you are." 

Jack laughed wetly and playfully shoved at his father's shoulder. 

His father grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground. 

Jack laughed and yelped and fought to gain the upper hand. 

They didn't realize Bittle and Alicia had returned to the room until Jack heard his son fussing, and froze. 

Bob promptly flipped Jack onto his back and tackled him, bellowing out his victory. 

Jack blinked up at his husband, who stood over them, gently bouncing the baby and shaking his head slowly at the two of them. 

"I signed up for this," Bittle sighed. 

"I wish I could tell you he'll grow out of it," Jack's mom said, "but the evidence otherwise lies before us." 

Jack pushed his father off of him with an affectionate shove and rose to his feet to wrap an arm around his husband and their son. His father climbed to his feet, too, albeit a bit more slowly, and his mother tucked an arm around his waist and fussed at his mussed hair, her expression fond. 

Bittle turned a radiant smile up to Jack, their son's small, fussy noises quieting as he slipped back into slumber. Jack's arm tightened around Bittle's shoulder—around his _family_ —and he felt his heart fill with warmth, and with calm, at long last. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr at [novembersnowflake](http://novembersnowflake.tumblr.com).


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